The Flatshare: A Novel

Am not usually an angry person. Am generally mild-mannered and hard to rile. It’s always me who stops Richie fighting (usually on behalf of a woman, who may or may not need any assistance). But now something primal seems to be happening, and it’s taking enormous effort to keep my body relaxed and movements gentle. Hostile posture and tenseness will not help Tiffy.

But I want to hurt him. Really. Don’t know what he did to Tiffy, what in particular triggered her this time, but whatever it was, it has hurt her so much she’s trembling all over like a kitten come in from the cold.

She surfaces, wiping her face.

Tiffy: Sorr— Umm. I mean. Hi.

Me: Hi. You want a tea?

She nods. Don’t want to let go of her, but holding on after she’s expecting me to is probably a bad plan. Dress again and head to kettle.

Tiffy: That was . . .

Wait. Kettle begins to boil, just a quiet rumble.

Tiffy: That was really horrible. I don’t even know what happened.

Me: Was it a new memory? Or something you’ve already talked through with the counsellor?

She shakes her head, frowning.

Tiffy: It wasn’t like a memory, it’s not like something came into my mind’s eye . . .

Me: More like muscle memory?

She looks up.

Tiffy: Yeah. Exactly.

Pour the teas. Open fridge for milk and pause. It’s filled with trays of little pink cupcakes iced with ‘F and J’.

Tiffy pads over to join me, sliding an arm around my waist.

Tiffy: Ooh. These must be for the wedding happening after we leave.

Me: How closely do you think they paid attention to the quantity?

Tiffy laughs. Not quite a full laugh, and a little wet with tears, but still good.

Tiffy: Probably very. Although there are so many.

Me: Too many. I’d estimate . . . three hundred.

Tiffy: Nobody invites three hundred people to their wedding. Unless they’re really famous, or Indian.

Me: Is it a famous Indian person’s wedding?

Tiffy: Lordy Lord Illustrator didn’t explicitly say so.

Pinch two cupcakes and give one to Tiffy. Her eyes are still a little pink from crying, but she’s smiling now, and eats the cupcake in almost one bite. Suspect she needs sugar.

We eat in silence for a while, moving to lean against Aga side by side.

Tiffy: So . . . in your professional opinion . . .

Me: As a palliative care nurse?

Tiffy: As a vaguely medical person . . .

Oh, no. These conversations never go well. People always assume they teach us all the medicine in the world at nursing school, and that we remember it five years later.

Tiffy: Am I going to freak out like this every time we’re about to have sex? Because that is literally the most depressing thought ever.

Me, carefully: I suspect not. May just take some time to work out triggers and how to avoid them until you feel safer.

She looks at me sharply.

Tiffy: I’m not . . . I don’t want you to think . . . he never, you know. Hurt me.

Would like to dispute that. Seems he has hurt her rather a lot. But it’s definitely not my place, so I just go and fetch her another cupcake and hold it up for her to bite.

Me: I’m not presuming anything. Just want you to feel better.

Tiffy stares at me, then, from nowhere, pokes me in the cheek.

Me, with a yelp: Hey!

Cheek-poke is a lot more startling than I’d realised when I did it to her earlier.

Tiffy: You’re not real, are you? You’re implausibly nice.

Me: Am not. I’m a grumpy old man who dislikes most people.

Tiffy: Most?

Me: There are a small number of exceptions.

Tiffy: How do you choose them? The exceptions?

Shrug, uncomfortable.

Tiffy: Really. Seriously. Why me?

Me: Umm. Well. I suppose . . . There are some people I just feel comfortable with. Not many. But you were one before I even met you.

Tiffy looks at me, head tilted, eyes holding my gaze for so long I twist on the spot, itching to drop the subject. Eventually she leans forward and kisses me slowly, tasting of icing.

Tiffy: I’ll be worth the wait. You’ll see.

As if I’d ever doubted it.